


Freak

by TheDetectiveInTheTARDIS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A little dark I suppose, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Noncon, John is mostly clueless, M/M, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 9,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDetectiveInTheTARDIS/pseuds/TheDetectiveInTheTARDIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is lost.  Can John Watson help him find himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The warnings make this seem a lot worse than I was planning to make it.  
> By the way, this is no where near finished yet, sorry.  
> Please comment!

"Hey, freak!"  
Sherlock looked up from his notebook, quickly closing it to prevent anyone from catching a glimpse inside.  
"Yes, what is it, Donovan?"  
"Mrs. Hudson wants to talk with you. What'd you fuck up this time?"  
He glanced at Donovan and took in her posture and minute limp before his gaze flicked over the rest of her group, noting that Anderson stood nearer to her than normal. He sniffed. They appeared to share a cologne.  
"I haven't fucked up anything, though it seems you have... Isn't that right, Anderson?"  
"Fuck off, freak." Anderson had blushed a deep maroon, a color shared by Donovan.  
Sherlock pushed himself up from the grass and bent to retrieve his belongings. As he did so, he felt a shove from behind. Judging from the height and pressure of the shove, it was likely Moran, who would be long gone by now, the only purpose of the assault being to inconvenience and embarrass Sherlock. Sherlock looked down at the scattered items he had dropped when shoved and sighed.  
"Need a hand?"  
It was an unfamiliar voice. Sherlock frowned. He looked up and bit back a gasp. The boy was perfect. A rugged blonde was standing over him, offering his hand, a halo of sunlight behind his head. Oddly fitting, Sherlock thought, Considering the boy's current position of savior. The teen seemed vibrant, radiating with life. His stance said disciplined and he was very intelligent judging by the contents of his textbooks and the class schedule that peeked out of his pocket. Worn trousers, probably handed down by an older sibling, parents not well off but could manage. A slight insomniac, and possible trouble in his parent's marriage, judging by the circles under his eyes. His very blue eyes, full of warmth and kindness but hinting at underlying strength...  
"These are great!"  
Sherlock snapped to attention. While he had been thinking, the boy had picked up his notebooks and was leafing through them, staring in wonder at the sketches of classmates and wildlife. And these strange dots and lines that the boy could not possibly decipher.  
"Return my notebooks." Sherlock snapped without thinking.  
"Woah, mate, sorry. Here. My name's John Watson, by the way." He offered his hand again, this time to shake with Sherlock's.  
Sherlock quickly snatched back his books, and quickly flicked through them to check for damage. It's not like the boy could possibly read my code, he rationalized, I created it myself, for the very purpose of being unsolvable. Satisfied, he took the other boy's - John's - hand and shook it. He felt a curious tingling and noticed John flinch slightly, with a look of mild surprise on his face.   
"The name's Sherlock Holmes"  
The bell rang for class.  
John pulled out his schedule to check for his class, and walked off. Sherlock had memorized his schedule.


	2. Chapter 2

"Would you pass me that graduated cylinder?"  
"What?" Sherlock started, his thoughts of John having distracted him.  
"I asked if you could pass the graduated cylinder." Molly Hooper restated meekly.  
"Here." He acquiesced, and glanced out the window. Judging by the sun's height, there was a quarter hour remaining of class. Chemistry, hah. Sherlock didn't need chemistry. This teacher could not possibly teach him anything he had not yet learned. He watched the clouds instead, noting likely weather patterns for the day. He pulled out a notebook and began sketching.  
Eventually, the bell rang, and it was time for lunch.  
Sherlock packed up quickly. He normally would not eat lunch, rather he would read or think in the relative quiet of the library. However, lunch would offer a chance to again see the ever elusive John. Sherlock puzzled over this newfound fascination, and decided more data was necessary. He must eat in the cafeteria.  
As he entered, he changed his mind about eating. Judging by the slight scent of rot permeating the air, many students would be having stomach troubles within the week. Avoiding the crowds as best he could, following the nearly imperceptible patterns created by natural social castes. He made his way to an empty table near the center of the room, the must likely place for a new kid to center on.  
There he was.  
John.   
He wandered through the crowd with the lost look of someone out of their environment and comfort zone. He waited patiently for John to notice his table. And then the unthinkable happens.  
"Oi! John! Over here!"  
It was Stamford, summoning John to his table. A table he shared with 'The Yard'- a group of teens who fancied themselves detectives; a group that included Moran, Anderson, Donovan, and their slightly less irritating leader, Lestrade. Sherlock seethed as John joined their table, knowing that soon he would be warned away from 'that freak', and Sherlock had lost the chance to befriend the intriguing boy.  
That interesting teen with the tingling hand and the warm eyes and...  
John.  
He had lost.  
Sherlock felt more depressed than he had been in a long time. He was vulnerable, desperately dreaming up new ways to talk to John, he must know John...  
"Oh, Sherlock..." A voice Sherlock knew far too well sang from behind him, causing a sudden sickness to twist his gut. Sherlock stiffened, a pang of fear stifled and hidden, and turned to see Professor Moriarty, who wore a smile and beckoned to him. Sherlock swallowed and complied.


	3. Chapter 3

John had just gotten his lunch, and was feeling bewildered and overwhelmed as he surveyed the cafeteria for an empty seat.  
"Oi! John! Over here!"  
Oh, thank god, John sighed to himself as he walked over to meet Mike Stamford, whom he had met in class earlier, at his table. He set down his tray and let Mike introduce him to the table's other occupants.  
"John, this is Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, Sebastian Moran, and Greg Lestrade. Everyone, this is John Watson."  
"How do you do, John?"  
Lestrade had spoken. John reached out and shook his hand. "It's very nice to meet you all."  
"Weren't you talking to the freak earlier?" The girl, Sally, asked accusingly.  
"'The freak'?"  
"Sherlock Holmes, psychopath extraordinaire. That's him, over there. You looked at his notebooks. What was inside them?"  
John looked towards the table to which she had gestured, and saw Sherlock sitting alone. "What?"  
"He's a bloody psychopath, that one. He likes murders, gets off on them, and one day you can bet he'll be the one to have put the body there. And then there are those notebooks he carries everywhere. No one ever sees inside them. It's fucking creepy. But you looked, didn't you? You know what's inside."  
"It's just a bunch of drawings, of people and dots. The drawings are fantastic, but the content is nothing special." John had decided he didn't much like Sally. She started speaking again, but John chose to tune her out, instead keeping an eye on Sherlock, who looked irritated and appeared ready to leave the lunchroom.  
Then something odd happened. An older man, a teacher, had walked up behind him and was talking to him. John could have sworn that fear, absolute terror and pain had flashed across Sherlock's face before he regained control of his expressionless mask. He nudged Lestrade. "Who's that talking to Sherlock?"  
"Hmm? Oh, that's just Professor Moriarty. Sherlock is his teaching assistant. If you ask me, I don't know how Jim Moriarty can handle Sherlock. I would have gone insane a long time ago."  
"I don't know, but when the Professor approached Sherlock, I thought that Sherlock looked scared."  
"Sherlock, scared? Impossible. Sorry, mate, but that couldn't it happen. Sherlock doesn't feel things like the rest of us."  
"Well, alright then." John returned to his meal and joined in occasionally on the table's conversation, that look on Sherlock's face lingering in his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat down in biology class feeling shaken, carefully arranging his expression so that none might guess at where he had been. He was late, and the class was choosing partners for their required science fair project. Sherlock wondered if he might do it alone, but a glance at the board told him a partner would be required. He looked about the room for anyone tolerable, then sighed and walked over to Stamford. "Would you work with me, or are you dead set on 'studying' with Hooper?"  
"Sorry, mate. I already asked her." Stamford replied apologetically.  
"Alright kids! Sit down!" Mrs Hudson commanded.  
There was a quick flurry of movement, no one wanting to incite the teacher's wrath.  
"We have a new student today. This is John Watson."  
John stepped through the door meekly and stood at the front of the room.  
"You may sit down now, John. You will be needing a partner for the class project, I suggest you find one quickly."  
John hurried to sit down, grabbing a seat next to Stamford, a seat that left Sherlock with an unencumbered view of the teen. All the better to study him, Sherlock thought, to distract me. He pulled out a notebook and, for once, began to draw something new. 

...

John gave a relieved sigh as he slumped into a chair next to Mike.   
"I don't suppose you have a partner yet?"  
"You know, you're the second person to have told me that today."  
"And who was the first?"  
Mike gestured towards Sherlock. "Sorry, I know what a pain he is, bloody awful to work with, but he's the only one left without a partner."  
"Do you know where I might ask him?"  
"Yeah, tell you what, it's the last period of the day, I can show you where he'll be after school's out."


	5. Chapter 5

John walked with Mike into the chemistry lab, which was bright and empty of all but one student, a familiar figure surround by test tubes and bottles. Sherlock glanced up from his work for a moment to identify the intruders.  
"Stamford. Watson. I presume you are here about the science fair project, but that can wait. I have just managed to recreate a test first done in the late 1880s designed by a Mr William Scott. The exact experiment has been lost for many years, but I have come up with a combination of chemicals that brings about the exact reaction described. This test can be used to identify bloodstains months old. If this test had been properly recorded and used, scores of criminals who escaped justice would have been jailed and hung. And I have brought it back! Ha! What do you think of that!" Sherlock's eyes fairly glittered as he spoke.  
I think he looks bloody gorgeous, John thought. What the bloody fuck, did I just think of him as gorgeous?!  
"It is incredible." John murmured, distracted by this new line of thought.  
Sherlock examined him with an intense gaze. He spoke suddenly, "Do you plan to go into the army because of monetary or familial issues?"  
"What?" John jumped back, startled but focused now.  
"I'd rather not repeat myself, if you are going to work with me, do strive to be more interesting. Also, I tend to play the violin while I think, sometimes I won't speak for days on end, I work at odd hours, and I will very possibly cause something to explode. Would that bother you? I feel it's best for a person to know all of another's faults before the must work together."  
"Well," John said, still rather taken aback, "I can't stand rows and keep odd hours myself, and I believe a violin well played is a great wonder, but badly played-"  
Sherlock laughed, cutting him off. "So it's a deal than. Come and see me at six this evening. The address is 221B Baker Street." He winked- bloody hell, winked?- and left.  
John looked at Mike and felt reassured that the bloke looked as shocked as he felt. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.  
"Yeah, he's always like that. He did seem a little stranger than usual." Mike chuckled.  
John shrugged. At least he had his partner, thank goodness. Mrs Hudson scared him.  
John walked down the hallway and was about to turn the corner when he heard a couple of loud whispers, harsh, as though the two were arguing. The noise was coming from a nearby classroom. He walked over and peeked through the window on the door. It was Sherlock, and that professor, Moriarty. Moriarty stood far to close to Sherlock, appearing to loom over him, while Sherlock stood stooped and small, the weakest John had ever seen him. The Professor laughed and offered a small bag of something to Sherlock, who accepted it and tucked it into his bag. John, realizing the two would soon exit the classroom, hurried away, ducking around the corner as the door opened. As he rushed to catch the Tube home, he wondered about the scene he had stumbled upon.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was pleased with his meeting with John. He had planned to head home and prepare for their meeting when he heard a quiet hiss from a classroom.  
He quickly opened the door and stepped inside. Professor Moriarty was waiting. "Hello Sherlock. I think I have something you want."  
"Yes," Sherlock ground out through his teeth. "You do. Give it to me."  
"Oh-oh-oh, not so hasty. You wouldn't want to anger me. Besides, you still owe me something more before you can have this." Moriarty took pleasure in seeing the boy pale a bit, his breath coming out a big weaker. He took another step forward until he was practically towering over his Sherlock. His, yes, this frightened child that no one else got to see, the one so filled with pain, pain that gave Moriarty even more joy in knowing he was the one to cause it.  
"I already paid the price and you know it." Sherlock breathed, praying that Moriarty agree.  
Moriarty gave a low chuckle, and Sherlock nearly sighed in relief. The man handed him the bag, and Sherlock made his way out of the room as quickly as possible. He caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision and saw a boy rounding the corner, obviously trying not to be seen. Sherlock turned quickly and inspected the door before dashing off after the boy. He stopped in shock when he realized it was John. John had been listening at the door. Sherlock speedily ran through the conversation in his head. What had John heard, what could he infer, what did he know?  
He worried about John on his way home, archiving the possible information in a newly created wing of his mind palace, one that was surprisingly large for it having been built that day. An entire wing dedicated to John Watson.


	7. Chapter 7

A knock sounded from the door. Concise but uncertain, the knocks were and precise and rapid. Sherlock glanced at the time. John was early. And nervous. He decided to hurry and open the door himself rather than submit John to an encounter with Mycroft. There was only so much a boy could take in one day; meeting one Holmes was more than enough, two might drive a person mad.  
Sherlock nearly ran down the staircase, the only thing preventing him from doing so being the deductive ability of Mycroft. Sherlock did not want his brother to know about John just yet.   
"Good evening, John."

...

This goddamn wind is going to freeze my bones. John stood on the stoop of a polished black door, wondering if he had the wrong address. The door did indeed say 221 Baker Street, but it did not seem possible that someone as extraordinary as Sherlock Holmes could live in something as ordinary as an apartment building. As John reached for the knocker to knock again, the door swung open, revealing Sherlock.   
"Good evening, John."  
"Hi Sherlock. Great to see you and all, do you mind if I come in before I catch my death of cold?"  
"Of course, John." Sherlock stepped graciously aside and gestured up the stairs. "My room is up this way, it's where I keep my laboratory equipment. If you'll come this way."  
John was walking up the stairs, wondering where the rest of Sherlock's family was when he came upon the door Sherlock had specified. Opening it, his thought processes stopped in shock. The rooms were a wreck. Equipment and books were scattered haphazardly, there was evidence of acids and explosions, and what looked like human body parts.  
"Well," John said shakily.  
"So if you'll just get set up-"  
"This could be very nice..."  
They had spoken in unison. Sherlock flushed, looking embarrassed. "Right." He hastily shoved various objects to the side, in a half-hearted attempt to clean. The project was quickly discarded.  
"Tea?" Sherlock asked hopefully, an obvious effort to distract from the mess. However, John was still rather cold, so he gratefully accepted.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock studied John as he idly sipped at his tea. The boy was clutching the tea like a lifeline. Obviously he was cold due to the frankly horrendous weather, but he was also uncomfortable in this room. Sherlock shifted closer, but John did not react strongly enough for Sherlock's presence to be the only factor. He made a note to clean the lab before John's next visit. John's reaction, however, was curious in its self. Sherlock could not identify the cause of it. Perhaps... "What have those idiots who refer to themselves as 'the Yard' been telling you about me?"  
John startled. Still not quite it. Sherlock simply could not put his finger on it. An idea formed in the back of his mind that slipped away whenever he approached it. "What?" Queried John somewhat incredulously. "How could you possibly know about that? Also, how did you know I wanted to join the army do to familial issues?"  
"I didn't know, John. I deduced it. The same way I can tell you plan to be a doctor, there is trouble in your parent's marriage, which is also causing you some monetary problems, you have an older sister, gay, which is probably the cause of the impending divorce."  
John looked shocked, as to be expected, but unexpectedly he also looked curious. Strange, Sherlock thought. "Still, that doesn't explain how you knew."  
"The fact that you want to be a doctor is easy enough, you showed me your schedule this morning when you checked the room number of your first period class. You have trouble sleeping, which could be insomnia or studying, but you also have worry lines, so a stressful home life. This could have been due to money troubles or marital issues, and you confirmed the latter just now when you inquired as to how I knew. While the cause of the marital problems may have been money, you clothes say something different."  
"My clothes?"  
"Yes, John. Don't make me repeat myself, it's dreadfully dull." Sherlock didn't dare look at John as he began to conclude his explanation. "Your clothes are handed down, but not old, therefore an older sibling. They are men's clothes, but the pants show the wrong signs of wear at the crotch to have been worn by a man, and the shirts have creases left by being worn over breasts. Also, you flinched when I mentioned your sister's sexuality, which infers that it is a delicate subject for you. This means that it is likely related to or the cause of trouble at home. Therefore: older sister is gay, one of your parents disapproves while the other is supportive, leading to an expensive divorce, causing the money troubles and desire for escape that causes your inclination to join the army."  
Sherlock didn't look at John. He knew the boy was staring at him wide mouthed, so surprised he had forgotten to breathe. Sherlock cringed, waiting for the verbal abuse and explosion of fear, but it didn't come. Instead came a quiet chuckle.  
"That was incredible."  
Sherlock looked up in bafflement and hope. "You think so?"  
"Yeah, of course."  
"That's not what people usually say."  
"And what do people usually say?"  
"'Piss off'."  
The both burst out laughing, Amazed and delighted. Is this what it feels like to have a friend? Sherlock wondered. He'd never had a friend like this. But somehow he felt as though something were missing, as though he needed something more.


	9. Chapter 9

John studied Sherlock as he laughed. The teen was incredible. John felt as though words could not describe what he had witnessed. No wonder other kids at the school feared him. Sherlock truly was better, and many would feel threatened by this. John sobered slightly, realizing how alone Sherlock must feel. Not anymore. John decided. He would be there for Sherlock, no matter what. John would befriend this strange, beautiful boy. Damn it, there he goes again. Then John freezes. Couldn't what they were doing now be considered a date? "So, Sherlock, do you have a girlfriend?"  
Well, fuck. John thought. That could not have sounded more awkward. But Sherlock was replying. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."  
John sat back, slightly startled. "So, boyfriend then?" Jesus, could he sound any more desperate...  
Sherlock paused, John becoming increasingly worried as the pause became drawn out, intensely aware of Sherlock's icy eyes scrutinizing him. "John, I'm flattered, but I'll have you know I consider myself to be married to my work-"  
"No! God, no. I just meant that it's fine. It's all fine."  
"I know it's fine."  
"Right."  
They entered a slightly awkward silence.  
Sherlock muttered a nearly inaudible "Thank you."  
John smiled.  
They sat companionably for a long while.


	10. Chapter 10

"So, the science fair project." Sherlock stated, breaking the quiet.  
John had been at 221B multiple times over the last few weeks, but the two were still indecisive about the exact topic of their project.   
They kept managing to go off on tangents, and somehow ended up far too close together. Nothing had happened, and each time Sherlock found himself wondering if he'd imagined it. Besides, there was no way John could love him if he knew what Sherlock was really like.  
But no one could crack his ciphers, so Sherlock could go on pretending.  
"Ah, yes," John stated airily, "the science fair. The SCIence Fair. The sciENce fair. The scienCE-"  
"John, that's enough. No reason to be dull."  
"Oh, fine, Sherlock, it's just no fun."  
"We must decide on a topic, John, the project is due in less than two months."  
"But two months is plenty!" John wheedled before noticing the look on Sherlock's face and sighing. "Can't you just turn in one of your experiments?"  
"Hardly, you kno-"  
"Yes, I know," John said hurriedly, cutting off the rant before it started. Sherlock's experiments were not always legal and he didn't want any attention brought to them. John brought to mind some very memorable experiences of sneaking into morgues to examine victims. He hoped that was the worst of what Sherlock did, but every now and then he'd admit to himself that he feared Sally might have a point. But she couldn't, not a chance, he always assured himself. "Let's do something unique..." Said John, returning to the conversation. "I know! Let's study the body 's reaction to stimuli!"  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. That wasn't a half bad idea. "You mean fear, anger, joy... lust?"  
"Yes, exactly!" John nearly yelled, caught up in the euphoria of his brilliant plan.  
Sherlock pulled out a pad of paper and started jotting down notes.  
"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John stopped his small victory dance.  
"Cataloging your response to joy. We may as well begin now."  
"Yeah, right." John said, calming as Sherlock finished his detailing of John's joy. He looked critically at the work, pleased at the quick sketch he had managed along with the scribbled words.  
Hmm, Sherlock thought, this could be fun. He glanced at John, who appeared to be absorbed in the notes he had jotted down. Sherlock jerked his head up and screamed, his gaze focusing on something behind John.  
John had never felt such panic in his life. He lunged forward, arms out for defense and face contorted in fear. He glanced back at Sherlock to make sure he was okay to see the genius convulsing with laughter. John's expression changed to one of shock. What the fuck was so funny?  
"Fear and shock responses recorded." Sherlock finally choked out, still rolling on the ground laughing. Oh, that was SO worth it. John's shock still hadn't faded by the time Sherlock was able to pick up the pen and pad and write again.  
"You motherfucking jerk." He finally managed.  
"Your face, though," Sherlock chortled. "You really believed..."  
He was laughing again, the bastard. John approached him with fists clenched. "We'll see how hard you laugh after I break that pretty face of yours." John threatened.  
The response he received was completely unexpected. Sherlock merely flipped the page and began scribbling anew.  
"The fuck are you doing? I THREATENED you, you should at least be afraid!"  
"Hardly, John, you're not all that scary." Sherlock's response had been perfectly calculated, and a new rush of fury swept through John.  
Then his posture changed completely. "You rotten bastard. You were trying to make me angry to catalogue my responses. But what if I'd hurt you?"  
"Nonsense, John, you wouldn't let yourself, no matter how much you'd want to. You're far too loyal and kind, you'd never make a decent thug."  
John stared slack jawed at the idiot genius. He felt that he was about to speak, and couldn't trust that he'd be able to control what came out when his phone rang.  
"Hello?"  
Sherlock was dissatisfied. It had looked almost as though John was preparing to confess something, and there was a large chance he'd not ever know what that thing was.  
"Sorry, Sherlock, I have to go. My dad is waiting outside."  
"Yes, alright." Sherlock had retreated to his thoughts as he always did when John left.  
John looked somewhat sadly behind him at the suddenly remote figure of his friend. It always worried him that Sherlock seemed to change when he left. But John's father was calling so John hurried away, the thoughts dissipating in the open air.


	11. Chapter 11

The project was going very well, they had gotten permission from other classmates to record their responses, and most of the school found the situations rather humorous.  
Dozens of students each day were sent reeling with fear, shock, anger, and other emotions, Sherlock's incredible memory making it unnecessary to take note of the data immediately. Not only was this useful in ensuring that the students were not forewarned by the presence of a notepad, it also served the purpose of a distraction for Sherlock's ever moving mind: he had not required cocaine or morphine in weeks.  
And the Professor grew impatient.  
As Sherlock peered around the corner, watching John this time, (He'd been having particular trouble in recording John's response to lust. He wouldn't dare to hope that John might share his sister's sexuality, but none of the girls he had found to flirt with John had any effect. He had had hope for this Mary Morstan, but she seemed to be having no luck.) when Moriarty approached him.  
"Sherlock, won't you come to my office? It won't be more than a minute."  
Sherlock had gone still again, shrinking in on himself as he always did in the presence of the Professor. "Sorry, sir, but I am a little busy at the moment. Perhaps later?"  
"Oh, no, I insist."  
Moriarty gently grasped the boy's shoulder so that he could not get away without risking a scene, and was inwardly pleased at Sherlock's flinch. He quickly escorted the teen to his office before any more protests could be made.   
Once inside the room, Moriarty shut and locked the door. Sherlock paled.  
"Well, Sherlock, I thought we had an agreement. You've been missing our appointments. Where have you been?"  
"I've had a lot of work to do."  
"Yes, your project, I've noticed. You seem to be spending a lot of time with that John. Do you have anything to say about that?"  
"It's nothing! We're just friends, colleagues!"  
"Is that all, Sherlock? You haven't come to see me in a while? Didn't you miss me? Or would you rather have John?" Moriarty's eyes gleamed. "Yes, that's it, isn't it? You'd do anything for John Watson."  
"No, you're wrong, he means nothing to me. Nothing at all." Sherlock's voice was almost calm, but his eyes betrayed him as they filled with panic.  
"I don't know why you like him so much, he's so ordinary."  
"I'm telling you, sir, I do not care about John Watson at all." Sherlock had regained control of himself, to Moriarty's disappointment.  
"If you're so sure, prove it. Down on your knees this time."  
"No! Wait!"  
"Or the problem that is John Watson could be removed permanently."  
Sherlock could not have looked sicker as he knelt before Moriarty, a motion he had performed far too many times before.  
"You know what? I'm feeling generous today. I'll even throw in a little something to help you forget later."

...

Sherlock left the school with a brown paper bag. When he woke up the next morning the bag was empty, and so was his heart.


	12. Chapter 12

The project was going very well, they had gotten permission from other classmates to record their responses, and most of the school found the situations rather humorous.  
Dozens of students each day were sent reeling from the stimuli, Sherlock's incredible memory making it unnecessary to take note of the data immediately. Not only was this useful in ensuring that the students were not forewarned by the presence of a notepad, it also served the purpose of a distraction for Sherlock's ever moving mind: he had not required cocaine or morphine in weeks.  
And the Professor grew impatient.  
As Sherlock peered around the corner, watching John this time, (He'd been having particular trouble in recording John's response to lust. He wouldn't dare to hope that John might share his sister's sexuality, but none of the girls he had found to flirt with John had any effect. He had had hope for this Mary Morstan, but she seemed to be having no luck.) when Moriarty approached him.  
"Sherlock, won't you come to my office? It won't be more than a minute."  
Sherlock had gone still again, shrinking in on himself as he always did in the presence of the Professor. "Sorry, sir, but I am a little busy at the moment. Perhaps later?"  
"Oh, no, I insist."  
Moriarty gently grasped the boy's shoulder so that he could not get away without risking a scene, and was inwardly pleased at Sherlock's flinch. He quickly escorted the teen to his office before any more protests could be made.   
Once inside the room, Moriarty shut and locked the door. Sherlock paled.  
"Well, Sherlock, I thought we had an agreement. You've been missing our appointments. Where have you been?"  
"I've had a lot of work to do."  
"Yes, your project, I've noticed. You seem to be spending a lot of time with that John. Do you have anything to say about that?"  
"It's nothing! We're just friends, colleagues!"  
"Is that all, Sherlock? You haven't come to see me in a while? Didn't you miss me? Or would you rather have John?" Moriarty's eyes gleamed. "Yes, that's it, isn't it? You'd do anything for John Watson."  
"No, you're wrong, he means nothing to me. Nothing at all." Sherlock's voice was almost calm, but his eyes betrayed him as they filled with panic.  
"I don't know why you like him so much, he's so ordinary."  
"I'm telling you, sir, I do not care about John Watson at all." Sherlock had regained control of himself, to Moriarty's disappointment.  
"If you're so sure, prove it. Down on your knees this time."  
"No! Wait!"  
"Or the problem that is John Watson could be removed permanently."  
Sherlock could not have looked sicker as he knelt before Moriarty, a motion he had performed far too many times before.  
"You know what? I'm feeling generous today. I'll even throw in a little something to help you forget later."

...

Sherlock left the school with a brown paper bag. When he woke up the next morning the bag was empty, and so was his heart.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter felt a bit forced to me, but whatever. I tried.

Yes, Sherlock did have a heart.   
He had kept it safe from Moriarty, but now that he had come to love John, he was doomed.  
He again began to work for Moriarty, allowing the man full use of his body and mind, accepting the drugs he was offered in turn.  
And Moriarty did indeed make use of him.  
For the coded writing in Sherlock's journals were plans.  
Moriarty would give Sherlock a name, and Sherlock would find the person and list their weak points, ways to kill them.  
Before John, Moriarty had discovered Sherlock's abilities, and had asked him to see what he could find out about people.  
Before John, these people had been classmates, mere child's play.  
Before John, the plans would not be enacted.  
When Moriarty had first asked Sherlock to plan a murder, Sherlock had refused. The only thing Moriarty had that Sherlock wanted could be paid for another way. And then Moriarty knew if he pushed the teen Sherlock would force himself to give up his stimulants.  
But now Moriarty had John.  
And Sherlock could not say no.

Five bombings had occurred over the past five days, each killing dozens of people. 

 

...

The bombings were all anyone could talk about at school. The biology project was put on hold as the school had suddenly become very busy with training staff and students for emergency situations.  
The data would have been skewed by the overpowering atmosphere of anxiety anyways.  
With all the chaos, almost no one noticed that Sherlock had begun to slip away again, eyes always dark and red, disappearing between classes, and vanishing after school. He had become gaunt and spectral, practically haunting the school.  
John was not the one to notice.  
John was at lunch when he first learned of the change in Sherlock.  
"I'm telling you, the Freak is a freak again! Sure, he may have been almost human these past couple of weeks, but have you seen him lately? He's like he was before John showed up!" Sally insisted.  
"Wait, what?" John felt like he was missing something.  
"Are you blind or something?" Sally scoffed.  
"Sally, take it easy, John wasn't here back then. But really, John, you haven't noticed a change in Sherlock recently?" Greg asked.  
"I mean, he's been acting kind of weird; I haven't seen him outside of school in a while, but I thought he must have been worried about the bombings."  
"John, I'm not suggesting that there's anything between you two, but since you've been here, Sherlock has been better. He used to be cruel and sadistic, hating everyone because he was different. He took cocaine and maybe some other things, and was in the hospital for overdosing once. But when you arrived, he got better so quickly it seemed miraculous. Now it looks as though he's regressing."  
John stared at Greg in shock. He had not known half of this about Sherlock, and he had considered the boy to be his best friend.  
Greg looked at John with something akin to pity. "You really didn't know?"  
"No, I didn't. I have to talk to him."  
"Be careful, John. Don't hurt him, or his brother will kill me."


	14. Chapter 14

John was unable to find Sherlock anywhere at school that day, or the next. Sherlock couldn't possibly be skipping school. He must be sick, John told himself. He decided to visit Sherlock at Baker Street.  
The door opened almost as soon as he rang the bell. An unfamiliar figure towered above him.  
"Ah, you must be John Watson. Sherlock has been very irritating in not allowing me to make your acquaintance. So, let's see what he was hiding, shall we?"  
"What the...? Who the hell are you?"  
"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother. Charmed, I'm sure." He grimaced as he surveyed the still baffled younger boy. "I'm not quite sure what Sherlock sees in you, but Lestrade likes you well enough, so you must have some redeeming traits."  
"Lestrade...?"  
"Your friend, Greg. If that is all, I bid you good day." Mycroft turned on his heel and began to shut the door.  
"Wait! I came to see Sherlock. Where is he?"  
"Sherlock is... Indisposed, at the moment. You'll have to come back another time."  
"Hold on, can't I see him?"  
Mycroft smiled somewhat sadly. "Your concern is touching, but I'm afraid there is nothing you can do for him at the moment. Now if you'll be going-"  
"John?" A voice came from behind Mycroft. It was Sherlock, but he sounded wrong, somehow. Exuberant and lofty.  
Mycroft swore.  
John looked past Mycroft and saw a furiously grinning Sherlock waving high to him, his other hand tapping a fast paced rhythm against his leg.  
"John, come in, ignore my brother, he is below notice. Stop glaring at me, Mycroft!"  
Something was very wrong. John glanced over Sherlock, taking in his dilated pupils and how one sleeve was rolled up past the elbow, with what looked like recent puncture marks in the antecubital space.  
"Mycroft, is he...?"  
"Yes, John. It's better if you leave now. He'll be coming down soon, and you won't want to be here for that. He becomes rather violent. Goodbye."  
The door was this time closed very quickly, leaving John standing stunned on the other side.  
Sally and Greg had been right, and there was nothing he could do to help. He didn't even know the cause of Sherlock's sudden relapse.  
What could he do but walk away?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, John is less clueless!

It had been two days since the incident at Baker Street, and John is going mad.  
Every day after school he locks himself in his room, attempting to piece together any information he could about the cause for Sherlock's behavior.  
It couldn't be a simple relapse. There was no way Sherlock would allow anything such control over him.  
And it's not like it could be some sort of lover's quarrel, Sherlock having never had a romantic other.  
School related stress? The boy aced his classes without trying and gave no fucks as to what others thought of him.  
Except...  
John kept reaching for something just in the corner of his eye, on the edge of his mind, on the tip of his tongue.  
Fear.  
He had seen that expression on Sherlock's face before.  
Long ago, before he had known him.  
The first week of school, at least.  
Orientation?   
Sherlock wouldn't have bothered to show up.  
The library?  
John hadn't had his card yet.  
Study hall?  
Yeah, like Sherlock used the study hall.  
The cafeteria?  
He'd talked about Sherlock his very first day, with the Yard.  
He'd seen Sherlock in the lunchroom, with fear on his face. It had been because of a man, that professor, Greg had known his name: Professor Moriarty.  
Sherlock had feared him.  
John had a lead.  
But if something was going on between Sherlock and Moriarty (could the teacher be his dealer?)  
how the hell was John going to learn anything about it?   
He could ask Greg, he and the rest of the Yard fancied themselves detectives, having occasionally found a drug dealer or thief at the school, but John had little faith in their abilities. Not for something this important. But who else could he turn to? He couldn't just call up the police with no evidence at all. Oh, for god's sake. He was going to have to ask the Yard for help.  
This was not going to be a fun conversation.


	16. Chapter 16

John cornered Greg in the library just before school started. Sally and Philip wandered over curiously when they saw the expression on John's face. Whatever this was had to be important, or at the very least intriguing enough to fuel conversation.  
"GregIneedyourhelp."  
"What? John, slow down a little." Greg looked amused.  
"Greg, I need the Yard's help with something."  
"You mean like a case?" Sally butted in.  
"Yeah, kind of."  
Greg's eyes gleamed. "A CASE! YES! What is it, John, what's the case? A thief? Swindler? Cheating lover?"  
"It's, erm, about... Sherlock?"  
"Oh, for Christ's sake." Greg practically threw his hands up in frustration. "Not my division."  
"But very much mine." Sally interjected, looking hungry for gossip of some kind, anything that could bring Sherlock down. She hated the boy so strongly. John often wondered what the cause was.  
"Greg, wait, please!" John heart soared when Greg stopped stalking away, though Greg did not turn to face him. "I think I know where Sherlock gets his drugs."  
Greg slowly turned around. He stated flatly, "Oh really, John? And where might that be? Sherlock's source is untraceable; even working with Mycroft I couldn't find them. And you just happened to figure out who the Spider is, just like that?"  
"The Spider?" John looked confused.  
"Sherlock's dealer isn't just some criminal. They're THE criminal, they run the underground networks of crime across all of Britain at least, possibly across the world. And you claim to know who they are."  
"I know the one person I've ever seen Sherlock to be afraid of."  
"Sherlock? Afraid? You're kidding." Greg scoffed. Then his eyes widened. "You're not kidding. Holy shit." He grabbed John by the shoulders. "Do you have any proof?"   
"If I did, don't you think I'd be with the police rather than talking to you?"  
"Fucking tell us who it fucking is!" Philip was nearly yelling, impatient with anticipation.  
"Professor Moriarty. I need to know anything you can learn about Professor Moriarty."  
Greg's jaw dropped, and it looked as though Philip and Sally were about to faint.  
As soon as he snapped out of his shock, Greg was pulling out his phone and pressing a number that was on speed dial. "Hello, Mycroft? There's something you ought to know."  
John looked at Greg in surprise, making a face at him.  
Greg covered the mouthpiece. "I figure things will go faster with the British Government on our side."


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft put down his phone slowly.  
Now was the best time; Sherlock was high as a kite.  
Mycroft quietly walked up the stairs and into Sherlock's rooms.  
He immediately approached the fireplace.  
He retrieved a tiny key from the skull on the mantelpiece.  
Kneeling down before the fireplace, he lifted as set of tiles, revealing the trapdoor behind which Sherlock had always kept his most prized possessions.  
Mycroft had never looked inside it before, so it was likely Sherlock believed that his hiding place remained secret.  
He gently turned the key in the lock, and lifted the door.  
There they were.  
The journals.  
He pulled them out and closed the door.  
Replaced the tiles and key.  
He left Sherlock's rooms and returned to his own.  
Mycroft opened a journal and immediately knew the code.  
It was pigpen, and something more.  
The cipher was not spelling words, but numbers.  
Each set of numbers corresponded to a certain word of a certain paragraph of a certain book.  
Mycroft was certain he knew which one.  
Redbeard: A History of Oruç Reis  
Within minutes Mycroft had memorized the code and could translate effortlessly.  
And he was shocked.  
The bombings, the fear, the pain, were all the product of his brother's frantic mind.  
But Sherlock had also recorded his own thoughts.  
Mycroft could see the beginning of a descent into madness.  
And he now knew what Moriarty held hostage over Sherlock.  
Sherlock could not be free until John was gone.  
John had to disappear, and Mycroft knew just how to do it.  
Moriarty would not merely allow John to leave the country, he had far too much control. The Spider's web stretched farther even than the reach of Mycroft. Moriarty had to believe John dead.  
Another bombing was planned for tomorrow, and Mycroft would make certain the only death would be John's.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was just removing the needle from his arm when he saw the news on the television.  
The newest wing of St. Bart's Hospital was no more. Then Sherlock frowned.  
His latest bombing had been carried out perfectly by Moriarty's men. How could only one person have died? What if the Professor became angry due to the failure and hurt John?  
And then he saw it.  
The name of the deceased.  
John H. Watson.  
Sherlock's mind, his body, his heart simply stopped.  
...John Watson died at 3:07 today. He is believed to have been on the roof at the time of the explosion. His death would have been instantaneous, and please include him and his grieving family in your prayers. Others that were injured include...  
The high began to kick in.  
Sherlock felt his heart rate skyrocket and began to twitch. He shoved himself out of his chair and almost stumbled to the door.  
"Cab!" He shouted as he ran out of Baker Street, ignoring the look the cabbie gave him as he climbed in.  
Sherlock told him the address of his school, and after seeing the wad of money Sherlock offered, the cabbie drove on without a word.  
Moriarty would be in the school. He graded the papers and homework, keeping up the appearance of a harmless, though weird, teacher.  
Sherlock could sense John in the seat next to him, urging him onward, towards revenge.  
Sherlock glared at the cabbie, frustrated at the speed of the trip, suspicious that he might be involved with Moriarty. The man did have kids, and would want to leave them as much money as possible when he died from that in not yet diagnosed aneurysm.  
The trip was made in under four minutes, and Sherlock practically threw his money at the cabbie before sprinting inside.  
Sherlock ran, needing to move, to avenge, to kill.  
He came to Moriarty's office and surged through the door.  
"Oh, hello, Sherlock. What can I do for you?"  
"You can die. Slowly and painfully."  
Sherlock drew his hand from his pocket, holding the object he'd been fingering since he left Baker Street.  
He'd almost decided not to bring Mycroft's gun. An Airsoft SIG-Sauer P226R. Well made and in perfect condition, of course, but it had seemed so impersonal next to a knife or his own hands. Now Sherlock found that fitting.  
He raised the gun and aimed it, not at Moriarty's heart, but his stomach.  
Moriarty, in Sherlock's opinion, did not have a heart to shoot.


	19. Chapter 19

Moriarty opened his mouth to speak.  
And Sherlock shot.  
He watched passively as the blood began to fall from the wound, Jim's look of shock turning to pain as he fell also.  
Sherlock had not given the man time to talk, to manipulate, to find a way of escape. The only logical thing to do to keep Moriarty from hurting Sherlock again had been to kill him. Why waste time with foolish words when John was dead?  
The bullet had gone straight through the man and had stuck in the wall.  
As Moriarty convulsed Sherlock gently pried the bullet from the wall, and retrieved the shells from the floor, carefully avoiding the growing pool of blood.  
Then he turned to the dying man and began kicking, punching, tearing at the fallen body in an attempt to cause Moriarty as much pain as he had felt at the Spider's hands.  
When at last the man lay dead, his corpse mangled beyond recognition, Sherlock stopped. The anger was gone, it had been gone, and all that remained was emptiness. He contemplated the gun, even placed it in his mouth experimentally, but refused to die in the same way as Moriarty.   
Then Sherlock recognized the only real option.  
He would die like John.  
It was only right.  
Sherlock made his way to the service steps and climbed to the roof.  
He stood on the edge, glancing down.  
He wasn't that far up, only four stories, but it seemed so much further when one planned to jump.  
He could feel the end of his high coming.  
Had that whole episode only taken fifteen minutes?  
Sherlock wondered at the absurdities of time.  
He leaned out over the edge and felt that inborn twinge of fear, an evolutionary development for protection. Not very useful, he mused, when you don't actually want to live.  
He pulled out his phone, wanting- stupid sentiment- to say something to someone before he died.  
So he called John.  
To leave a message for a dead man.  
He didn't even know if John's phone had survived the explosion; even if it had it would be ages before the message was heard.  
What would it matter? He dialed the number.


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft burst into Baker Street with half of MI6.  
"Sherlock! Are you here?"  
Mycroft strode through the rooms hurriedly. He needed to reach his brother before he heard the news. Otherwise, the results may be disastrous.  
Sherlock was never the most stable person, but with the tortures he'd experienced at the hands of that madman, the loss of John could easily cause him to snap.  
He had to find his brother.  
Then Mycroft saw it.  
"Sir?"  
"He's not here. We're too late. Get to as many of Moriarty's men as you can. Kill on sight. Go."  
Mycroft stood still as the men rushed out, gazing sadly at the small mahogany box, still lying open on the table.  
And the empty syringe next to the shattered television.  
"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?"  
Mycroft hailed a cab outside of 221 Baker Street. "St Bartholomew High. Get me there fast and I'll pay double."  
When they arrived, Mycroft curtly paid the cabbie before exiting only to pause for a minute and stare at the grassy field in front of the school.  
There, Sherlock had sprung from the cab. Over there he had started to sprint. Mycroft could see the anger in the forceful displacement of the grass from Sherlock's foot.  
He strode up to the school, noting the tear in the paint from when Sherlock wrenched open the door and the dent in the brick work where the door had slammed open.  
He followed the trail of rubber smears on tile, all the way to the room of the Professor himself.  
He carefully opened the door, and no reaction registered on his face at the sight of the mangled body.  
Ever detail of the meeting was automatically presented to him, but he ignored them in favor of reaching for his cell phone.  
"Yes, MH here. I need cleanup at St Bartholomew's. Oh, and you can release JW now. There is no longer any threat to his safety."  
"JW is not here. As soon as he heard the announcement of his death, he claimed to need the restroom. When an agent went to check on him a few minutes later, he was gone. Apologies, sir."  
"No matter."  
Mycroft hung up the phone. John had escaped. Hope blossomed in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't to late, his little brother... Mycroft found himself running, as hard as he could, up the steps and to the roof where he knew Sherlock would have gone to die.  
He came to the roof access door and hesitated. What if...


	21. Chapter 21

Mycroft burst into Baker Street with half of MI6.  
"Sherlock! Are you here?"  
Mycroft strode through the rooms hurriedly. He needed to reach his brother before he heard the news. Otherwise, the results may be disastrous.  
Sherlock was never the most stable person, but with the tortures he'd experienced at the hands of that madman, the loss of John could easily cause him to snap.  
He had to find his brother.  
Then Mycroft saw it.  
"Sir?"  
"He's not here. We're too late. Get to as many of Moriarty's men as you can. Kill on sight. Go."  
Mycroft stood still as the men rushed out, gazing sadly at the small mahogany box, still lying open on the table.  
And the empty syringe next to the shattered television.  
"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?"  
Mycroft hailed a cab outside of 221 Baker Street. "St Bartholomew High. Get me there fast and I'll pay double."  
When they arrived, Mycroft curtly paid the cabbie before exiting only to pause for a minute and stare at the grassy field in front of the school.  
There, Sherlock had sprung from the cab. Over there he had started to sprint. Mycroft could see the anger in the forceful displacement of the grass from Sherlock's foot.  
He strode up to the school, noting the tear in the paint from when Sherlock wrenched open the door and the dent in the brick work where the door had slammed open.  
He followed the trail of rubber smears on tile, all the way to the room of the Professor himself.  
He carefully opened the door, and no reaction registered on his face at the sight of the mangled body.  
Ever detail of the meeting was automatically presented to him, but he ignored them in favor of reaching for his cell phone.  
"Yes, MH here. I need cleanup at St Bartholomew's. Oh, and you can release JW now. There is no longer any threat to his safety."  
"JW is not here. As soon as he heard the announcement of his death, he claimed to need the restroom. When an agent went to check on him a few minutes later, he was gone. Apologies, sir."  
"No matter."  
Mycroft hung up the phone. John had escaped. Hope blossomed in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't to late, his little brother... Mycroft found himself running , as hard as he could, up the steps and to the roof where he knew Sherlock would have gone to die.  
He came to the roof access door and hesitated. What if...


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I think this is the end.

Sherlock heard the phone ring behind him.  
"John?" His voice broke, wanting, needing, but not daring to hope, lest his heart be broken again.  
"Sherlock, get down from there! What the fuck are you doing?! If you were planning to jump so help me god, I'll kill you myself!"  
"John!"  
Sherlock turned and rushed at his friend, throwing himself onto the boy, clutching at him to make sure he'd never leave again.  
"Sherlock, it's okay, I'm okay-"  
John's words were cut off as Sherlock grabbed him by his collar and yanked him into a kiss that left him breathless.  
When Sherlock finally broke it off, gasping and shuddering, John held him tight as he sobbed into his arms.  
"John."

... 

Mycroft opened the door to see his little brother, safe and sound, clutched tightly in John's arms.  
He noted absently the tears that ran streams down his face as he watched Sherlock, bloodied and exhausted, sob into his friend's arms.  
Or maybe more than friends, Mycroft thought as the two began to kiss desperately.  
He waited until they finished before approaching.

...

John looked up to see Mycroft approaching.  
"Ah, sorry, Mycroft, I didn't mean to mess up your plan or anything-"  
"No, John, don't worry about it." Mycroft smiled sadly. "Without your escape, it is likely Sherlock would be dead. Having avenged your murder, his drugged brain had decided there was no further point to existence. He would have jumped without you. So, I must thank you, John."  
John gaped as he took in Sherlock's appearance fully for the first time.  
"Sherlock! Are you okay?"  
"I'm fine, John, better than fine. And Mycroft, stop fretting. The cocaine has fully worn off, I won't behave violently or unpredictably."  
"Sherlock, you just killed a man! There's bound to be some psychological trauma-"  
"You mean more so than there already was?"  
That shut John up. But only temporarily.  
Sherlock felt he'd never be free of John's nagging again, and annoying as that was, it felt nice to be cared about. Sherlock even wore a shock blanket in the cab ride back to Baker Street, if only to keep John happy.  
And when at Baker Street the two found themselves sitting nearly on top of each other once again, neither minded at all.  
It was fine.


End file.
